


Just Another Promise I Made

by sadgaydetective



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Drug Addiction, Drugs, John Dies, M/M, Other, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sad Ending, Sherlock dies, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 10:37:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2188620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadgaydetective/pseuds/sadgaydetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not getting better, John”, he whispered. “It’s not getting better at all. It’s just getting worse and worse and every day that passes is another promise that you won’t come back. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, John. I never did without you. I just want you back.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Promise I Made

Sherlock watched, but didn’t comprehend. This was not supposed to be happening. This was impossible. This was never part of the equation he had upheld so delicately. 

His eyes couldn’t help but see, but his brain refused to follow.

All Sherlock could see was John, John, John, John alright, John in Baker Street, John chasing after him, but not here, not slowly going to the ground in slow-motion and grimacing in pain and disbelief. _John, what are you doing on the floor? You need to get up. We need to catch the murderer. Come on, John. John!_

But Sherlock’s words had no impact on John. He went down and only when Sherlock saw the blood gushing out of John’s body his brain caught up. _John is in danger._

Sherlock was petrified for a moment; then he got moving. Forgotten was the murderer they were chasing; forgotten was the case. All that mattered was _John lying on the ground hurt bleeding dying he had to do something._

Sherlock looked for the wound from the bullet that had hit John and cursed under his breath when he saw the damage it had already caused. He applied pressure to the wound to keep John from bleeding to death and searched in his coat pocket for his phone at the same time. After he had called an ambulance rather demandingly, he dropped the phone and brought his full attention back to John.

He couldn’t look in John’s glazed eyes; instead, he focused on the wound, ignoring how visibly John was struggling to breath.

“It’s going to be okay, I’m trying to fix it, everything is going to be okay, I-“

“Sherlock“, John interrupted with difficulty. “Look … look at me.”

Sherlock met John’s gaze and almost cringed. Not enough life in them, not enough sparkle, not enough John. _I can’t lose you, John. Not again. Not for real, this time._

“I’m a bloody doctor and I know where the bullet hit me. So shut up and listen to me now, because I’m not going to last much longer.”

John’s words brought Sherlock back to reality. For a moment he had allowed himself to get lost in the imagination of a world where there was no John, and he shuddered. Scowling, he looked at John.

“No, John, you are. Do you hear me? For God’s sake, you’re not going to die on me! You can’t. We’re going to get you to a hospital; the ambulance is going to show up any minute and you are going to last that long, you understand me? You can’t leave me.”

Sherlock watched as John slightly laughed at his words, or rather tried to; he watched painfully as affection and amusement flashed over John’s face.

“Sherlock, shut up. You don’t have a say in everything in the world. You-“

John’s breath suddenly became rattling.  He gasped for air and grimaced in pain. “Sherlock-“

Sherlock caressed John’s face in a desperate effort to comfort him. “Hold still, John, they’re coming, they’re going to fix this, don’t worry. It’ll be alright.”

John just shook his head. “Sherlock, I … need to … tell you … I …”

His face became rigid all of a sudden and he went still. His eyes stared into the starless sky above them.

For a second, Sherlock could only stare.  _No, not dead, not dead, John could not be dead, it wasn't true, wasn't real. No._

_“_ John!” Sherlock sobbed. “No. Don’t be stupid, John, you can’t do this. You can’t leave.” He continued to caress John’s face, stroked his cheeks, brushed away his hair, and looked for a sign of life underneath the skin, but there was none, and Sherlock howled in pain.

Horror defined his face when he stroked the outline of John’s lips with his thumb; they tasted salty from his tears as he placed a chaste kiss on them. With closed eyes, Sherlock breathed in the smell of John one last time; he needed to memorize more; needed to memorize everything; needed to know how John smelled; needed to feel the texture of his jumpers; needed to thread his fingers through the blonde hair before it was too late.

But it was too late.

It had been too late from the moment he had looked into John’s eyes and seen nothing of John in them.

Sherlock felt something rise in his chest, something he had thought he would never feel again. It crippled him and made him unaware of the police sirens and the Samaritans, and how they pushed him aside in order to heave John on a stretcher; unaware of Lestrade trying to talk to him; unaware even of John being pushed into the car, out of his sight, _but this was not right, wait_ and he snapped back and yelled at Lestrade and wanted a cigarette, but he needed to wait, needed to make sure he was with John first, so he jumped into the ambulance and didn’t care about the protests around him, in fact he didn’t think he would ever care about anything ever again in his life, so he let them yell while he stared at John’s lifeless face and prayed for the first time in his life for a miracle, because this just couldn’t be and there needed to be another option and _someone needed to make John live_.

\---

The next days went by in a rush. Sherlock didn’t see, didn’t feel, and didn’t think. He felt as if his whole world had stopped moving; in a way, it had. John was gone _and he could still not think this sentence without wanting to burn his brain out because it hurt so much much much_ and Sherlock didn’t know what to do so he didn’t do anything at all.

Mycroft took care of the formal stuff; he organized the funeral and almost couldn’t convince Sherlock to go. It had taken harsh words to shake Sherlock off his stupor; only the words “he came to yours” made him appear at the ceremony; he left as soon as it was over. He couldn’t stand the sad faces and the tears and the regret and sorrow and all he wanted to do was throw up, but he didn’t. Instead he walked around London all day and at night he found himself back at Baker Street, still in his funeral suit, the drugs in front of him, and when he was high and screaming and crying and begging for an end, he was sure Mrs Hudson heard him, but he didn’t care, because he had no reason to care anymore.

\---

He stared at Mycroft with glazed eyes, saw his brother’s mouth moving, but didn’t hear any words. He didn’t know what he wanted from him; he wasn’t capable of doing anything anymore. _Surely Mycroft knew?_

“It’s been three months, Sherlock. What are you going to do? You can’t live on like this; he’s not going to come back.”

 _I know I know I know,_ the voices in Sherlock’s head screamed, so Sherlock screamed too; he didn’t know what to do, he wanted Mycroft to leave, there was nothing to be done anymore, _because John wasn’t coming back._ Sherlock threw Mycroft out of the flat and reached for the syringe on the table next to him.

\---

Sherlock stood on top of the roof and looked down; the people and the cars were so small, so insignificant. He remembered jumping; he remembered John screaming his name, John begging to let him through _because he was his friend._

“John, I miss you”, he whispered into the air; no one heard him.

“I want you to come back. I can’t take this without you. Please.”

But nothing happened, and he hadn’t expected anything.

“I am sorry, John. I couldn’t save you. I tried, I really did. I am so sorry. For everything you have suffered through because of me.”

He imagined himself standing down there, so small, and looking up to see John standing where he was standing now, about to jump – and he couldn’t take it, he couldn’t believe what a fool he had been and what he had done to John and _how was he ever supposed to get out of this?_

Sherlock could hear his phone ringing in his pocket; he knew it was Lestrade. He knew there was a new case, but he couldn’t bring himself to be interested. Lestrade had called him four hundred and seventy-three times since John’s death, and he hadn’t answered a single time. Sherlock couldn’t imagine being at a crime scene without John; he didn’t want to and he couldn’t. He was done with this part of his life.

The former detective left the roof and St. Bart’s and Molly and Lestrade and the cases and he didn’t think he would ever come back because it reminded him too much of _Afghanistan or Iraq?_ and he couldn't bear thinking about it.

He left everything behind except Baker Street and Mrs Hudson. These two he just couldn’t turn his back on. He ignored Mrs Hudson ninety percent of the time and devastated 221B whenever he was high; but he knew Mrs Hudson appreciated him staying, and although he felt sorry for her he knew they both needed this comfort. He hated and loved Baker Street for the memories of John it provided; and while Sherlock couldn’t decide if he liked or hated it, he couldn’t stay away from it either.

\---

“Sherlock, look at me!”

Sherlock frowned absently in his brother’s face. What had he done now? Had he done something wrong? _But no, he wasn’t a child anymore, he was an adult, and Mycroft had no right talking to him like this._

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he managed to choke out; his head felt heavy, his mouth was dry, and he could feel his stomach cramping. Uh-oh.   _Symptoms. But of what? Can’t think don’t want to it’s enough._

“Sherlock, look at me, for Christ’s sake!”

Sherlock managed to focus his eyes on the face in front of him. If he hadn’t known better, he’d said Mycroft looked worried.

“I’m alright, Mycroft”, he coughed. “Let me alone.”

Mycroft huffed. “I’m not entirely sure about this. How often have you overdosed now, Sherlock? Three times? Four times? How long do you think you can keep going like this?”

Sherlock avoided his eyes and looked around. He lay in a huge bed, but didn’t recognize the room they were in at first. Then, “What am I doing at your place?”

“You passed out in a street in the middle of London. I got you here, but you weren’t in serious danger this time.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. His only thought was _thank God John can’t see this_ , but Mycroft interrupted again.

“Would you mind answering my question? How long do you think-“

Sherlock quickly rose from the bed. Suddenly he was full of anger; he needed to do something.

“Shut up, Mycroft just shut up! You have no idea!”

He stumbled out of bed and searched for his shoes, pointedly avoiding Mycroft’s gaze. Suddenly he couldn’t bear it anymore; even less than usually.

“I need to go. Bye. Don’t look for me. I’m _fine._ ”

Mycroft wanted to say something, but Sherlock didn’t let him. He left the room and building as quickly as he could.

Outside, he took a deep breath, walking away from his brother and his pity and questions and accusations. He couldn’t take it; his own thoughts were enough.

The only thing that kept him here were the drugs and he knew what John would think about this. “I’m so sorry, John”, he whispered for the countless time. He needed to escape his thoughts, but whenever he took the syringe in his hand, guilt rushed over him like a disease; it became stronger each time he did drugs.

“I just need an escape, John, don’t you understand? I can’t manage it alone; I can’t handle it anymore.”

He took out a cigarette and lit it. It was glinting in the dark, like a beautiful creature. Sherlock watched the smoke vanishing into the night and he found himself wishing he could do the same. He wanted to disappear, _to not feel anymore._

Sherlock almost laughed at that thought. What had happened to the high-functioning sociopath?

“John Watson”, he answered himself, almost proud for a moment.

But then it rushed back in, the reminder of what he was now, how he needed John for his well-being, how he had lost everything _except the part of your brain that won’t shut up, Sherlock, what happened to your mind control? Good job, Sherlock, like everything you do. Great job, really. Well done._

Grimacing, Sherlock turned and started walking into a different direction. He didn’t care where he’d land.

“It’s not getting better, John”, he whispered. “It’s not getting better at all. It’s just getting worse and worse and every day that passes is another promise that you won’t come back. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, John. I never did without you. I just want you back.”

After a while he realized he was walking towards the Thames.  _Is this how it is supposed to end?_ he asked himself quietly; the idea that had popped into his head didn’t scare him. It all made sense.

“I just want one more minute with you, John, to tell you what I couldn’t tell you when you were still alive, but I know I won’t get it and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life counting minutes full of regrets and would-be’s and especially without your presence. I tried, John, but you know how weak I am. Don’t hate me too much for this. And I know I said once I wouldn’t leave again and I also promised to save you, but you did the same, so I assume we’re even now, John Watson”, he said as he slowly began to walk into the ice cold water, deeper and deeper until he thought he couldn’t take it anymore. _Just another thing on the list._

And suddenly his thoughts were gone and there was pure nothingness and a feeling of lightness rose in his chest and he liked this so much more than the ballast he had carried with him for the past year and he almost smiled as one last memory of John smiling and John with his sparkling eyes and John with his jumpers and John who always believed in him flashed through hismind before he lost consciousness and drifted away into darkness.

 

 

 


End file.
